


Business

by yonnna



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Blood, Canon Divergent, Death, Violence, possible emetophobia, this started out seriously enough but by the end it's an episode it's always sunny in philadelphia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 20:09:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8859346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonnna/pseuds/yonnna
Summary: Running illicit criminal organisations as a teenager has it’s difficulties, and is apparently a more common problem than he would have imagined. Canon divergent — Luchino leads the attack on the drug cartel personally (and Life barely exists).





	

**Author's Note:**

> Finally posts this to Ao3 since I posted it on tumblr ten years ago

“I run a business, sir. Do you know what that means?”

The silence is so thick that Luchino could cut it with his stiletto if it wasn’t already pressed to the man’s throat — but he doesn’t need an answer. Everyone knows what sort of _business_ the Mask Makers run these days.

“It means that I understand the importance of a fair trade.”

Nothing classy, nothing _respectable_ — not since he took over from his father — but between expensive suits and witty banter they front well. One day, he’ll make something worthy of notoriety out of the band of thugs he has it his disposal; until then, he starts with _himself_.

“Let’s make a deal: your life for your leader’s location.”

Perhaps if his father had taught him a little more before he’d left, he would have more effective means of achieving notoriety than paraphrasing dialogue from action movies. He hadn’t, and he doesn’t, but his acting isn’t _bad_ ; he’s no _Robert De Niro_ , but he’s practised this speech in front of the mirror enough times to keep his voice, and hands, steady.

It’s a shame that this doesn’t achieve _much_.

“ _Fuck_ your business!” The man spits these words, so close to Luchino’s face that he is fortunate his mask hides his flinch. “I won’t tell you where she is!”

Luchino would like to run a business where murder is not a viable solution to financial problems.

“I run a business. Do you know what that means?” He would like, _really_ , not to run a business at all — but ideal or not, he has to live in this world. The Mask Makers haven’t survived this long through pity and mercy.

“If another business refuses to work with us, we _cut them off_.”

He should have worn black. It’s easier to think about _these_ mistakes; if he focuses on how difficult it will be to get bloodstains out of a blue blazer, he can almost convince himself to be more annoyed with himself than _horrified_ by what he’s done. He gives a fleeting glance at the man’s face, searching for any sign of a change of heart, and he —

“ _She_ , huh?” an airy voice cuts in. “That’s so cool! When was the last time the leader of the _Mask Makers_ was a girl, hm, Rookie?”

He sees Illness smiling lopsidedly at him over the man’s shoulder. Illness, who he had told to keep quiet. Illness, who has a gun pressed to the man’s back and his arm twisted, and still somehow feels it’s appropriate to make small talk.

“What are you talking about?” His youthful face gains a few wrinkles when he furrows his brow; the irritation puts a couple years on him, and it’s a shame because no one can see it through his mask. “You do realise Monica Campanella was a woman, right? She was the first Mask Maker.”

“Uh, yeah, exactly! When was that —? Like, two billion years ago?”

“Two hundred and ninety-one.”

“Wow, how do remember that boring stuff, boss?”

“I — that’s beside the point.”

A thin treacle of blood runs down from where his blade met with the man’s neck, but thanks to the distraction it’s little more than a flesh wound. Luchino hates killings like these; _slow_ , painstaking. Not because they are worse for the victim, but because they are hell for _him_. He can’t stand blood — the sight, the smell. A quick killing means he can have it over with; a drawn out one means he has to stomach the unbearable.  

“Uh-huh, the point is, there should be a _woman_ in charge of the Mask Makers!”

The man between them makes a vague grunt of agreement, teeth bared in pain. “She’s right, you know. There’s no shame in it.”

He can’t decide if the twisting in his stomach is down to the choking scent of iron or the whirlwind of accusations. _Did she have to bring this up now, when his throat feels too dry for him to argue?_ He tightens his grip on the stiletto. If he doesn’t finish this soon he’s never going to.

“That’s — it’s an inherited title! If I had an older sister she would be in charge instead! And besides that’s — that’s still not the point.”

The next ten seconds is a flurry of events which do nothing to help his nausea.

 _One, two, three_. He drives his stiletto into the man’s neck.

 _Four_. A spurt of blood covers his nicely pressed suit. He tries to think only about what a chore it will be to have it cleaned, but he looks at his hands and thinks about how _they_ will never be clean.

 _Five_. Illness opens her mouth to say something. He thinks it will be something about _how sick she feels_ or how _gross it smells_. He does not listen. He already _knows_. _Six_. There is a sharp sound ringing in his ear, barely noticeable and yet unmistakable.

 _Seven_. He shoves the man’s body in front of them. The bullet pierces his chest. Luchino doesn’t know whether to take solace in the fact that he was already dead. _Eight_. Illness hasn’t moved. He grabs her wrist and _pulls_.

 _Nine_. They are running. Bullets scrape loudly against the floor behind them. Illness shoots back. All he can think about is _running_.

By _ten_ they’re in the alleyway behind the restaurant. Illness lurches away from him, demonstrating the _uncommon_ common courtesy of hurling into a garbage can instead of on his shoes, and Luchino takes heaving breaths, attempting to pinpoint the source of the bile rising in his throat: shame, disgust, exhaustion —  all three.

 

There’s a metallic _clang_ , which she can only owe to Luchino slamming his foot against the bin. Illness looks up, vision a bit blurry through her watery eyes, to see the boy tear off his mask.

“I told you not to say anything,” he speaks these words slowly, deliberately — or because he is still struggling to breathe through the scent of death clinging to him. He looks down at his mask, now coated with the same red as his hands.

“I didn’t mean to —”

“It doesn’t matter what you _meant_ to do!” He almost flings his stiletto, forgetting that he was still gripping it in his right hand. He knows this anger is with himself, not with Illness; if he was a better leader, she would follow his orders. If he was a better leader, he would not let himself get so _emotional_. “You distracted me. You could have gotten us both killed!”

He stuffs his dagger back into the sheath sewn into the inside of his blazer and turns curtly. He has to get out of here: between the knowledge of his failure and the reminder that he’s just _killed_ someone, staying for a discussion is not an option.

“I mean, uh, we’re… we’re _not_ dead, so,” her voice trails off meekly, and Luchino does his best not to _care_.

“No, we’re _not_ — which is why I intend to leave before that changes.”

He takes three and a half steps, exactly, before a hand tugs his sleeve.

“Hey, w-wait, don’t leave me alone here, Rookie!”

He pauses but doesn’t look back. Her voice shakes with an emotion he doesn’t _want_ to see; he finds that it’s more difficult to distance himself from a person the more he sees them afraid.

“Uh — I — I mean, we still need to find her —”

He sighs a long, heaving sigh, and makes an effort to calm his voice. He puts the mask back on; he can survive a few more minutes as an emotionless leader.

“This mission is over, Illness. We don’t have any leads.”

He can survive; he killed a man, he can stomach the blood. He can —

“That’s not —”

He _can_ — but _damn it, for how much longer_?

“I’m done here. Follow me or don’t, I don’t —”

“Wait —”

Something small and metallic is pressed into his hand. This time, he turns to look.

“…?”

 _A cellphone_. It takes him a moment to process the relevance, then he recalls the way Illness had stalled after the first gunshot. Not _her_ cellphone — the dead man’s.

“Uh, don’t know if it’s any help, but I figured you’d want it anyway.”

* * *

 

They order two plates of fries and don’t do much more than stare at them. After a solid hour in the bathroom scrubbing his hands clean, Luchino can still smell a faint hint of iron on them, and even in a clean suit he can picture the bloodstains. The nausea has passed, and he prefers not to tempt it.

Illness picks at her food with a fork. Luchino studies the cellphone.

“He only has three contacts. It’s a long shot, whether any of them belong to the leader, but at least it won’t be difficult to narrow it down.”

“ _Only three_? Wow, even I have more contacts than _that_ , and I’m —”

“Aging?”

Illness furrows her brow.

“Uh, no, I’m _Illness_. Jeez, shouldn’t you know that by now?”

Luchino shakes his head, pointing across the diner to the amazonian woman stepping through the front door. Illness looks over just as Aging bumps her head against the door frame and giggles so softly that he can’t help wondering how the girl sitting across from him manages to routinely kill people. Then, he remembers, she doesn’t _manage_ — not _really_.

Then, he remembers, neither does _he_ , and he decides not to make any comment.

“Cute little date you two’ve got going on here.” Aging laughs like thunder, hearty and booming, and from the shock in his expression the _lightning_ seems to have struck Luchino.

“ _This_ is a business meeting.”

“With fries?” She takes the seat beside Illness without asking and winks. “Some business meeting.”

Illness crinkles her nose, mumbles something about how _that’s gross_ , _Rookie was covered in blood, and anyway she’s not even eating the fries_. Aging only seems to hear this last part.

“You serious?”

  
“Huh? Um, yeah, I’m not. I can’t eat after, y'know —”

  
“Too bad for you.”

Aging heaves her broad shoulders into a shrug and dives in.

“No wonder you two are so tiny. The body needs nutrients to grow.” Death sidles in beside Luchino, and he _jumps_ because he hadn’t even noticed him come inside. For someone with so much bulk, he has a way of being surprisingly _unassuming_ — more shadow than man.

 _Less_ shadow in behaviour than demeanour. He takes Luchino’s fork, picks up a fry and holds it up to his face.

“For your own sake, eat. I could crush you with my left hand.”

Luchino sneers, opens his mouth to speak, and gets force-fed a fry instead.

“Leave the boss alone, Death,” says Aging, grinning through a mouthful of food. “I could crush you with my pinky.”

“No one is crushing anyone,” the young leader reminds his subordinates — or attempts to.

“Rookie is right! So what if you can crush me?” Illness folds her arms over her chest, sitting back in her seat while Aging reaches over her to grab another handful of fries. “Hmph! It’s not all about strength. Bet I could still beat you —”

“No one is beating anyone.” _Keep calm, remain patient_. Slow, enunciated speech: that’s the way a _Mask Maker_ gives orders. “We have a job to do.”

Aging leans halfway across the table with her hulking frame, suddenly alight. “Why didn’t you just _say so_ , boss? Tell me it’ll be dangerous.”

Luchino _does not_ tell her it will be dangerous; Illness, next to her, looks visibly distressed by the suggestion, and, besides that, he would prefer to think that _no_ well-executed mission is truly dangerous.

Aging seems to have decided that it will be dangerous, anyway.

“What do you need us to do? Plant some bombs? Break out the machine guns? Storm the — ”

“I _need_ _you_ to bring this to Life.” Luchino holds the phone out. “ _Without_ breaking it. I want him to trace the recent phone calls.”

She breathes out through her nose in a _huff_ , _daintily_ accepting the phone and slumping back. “Alright, alright, and once we’ve done that — _then_ it gets dangerous?”

Luchino considers for a moment, tenting his fingers in front of him.

“Then,” he says, slowly, clearly. “You report back to me.”

* * *

 

“No offence, Rookie, but this is the _ugliest_ thing I’ve ever worn.”

The dress is floral print on a white background and a bit gaudy; anyone but Luchino would say that it looks like a refashioned curtain. Luchino would say that it’s a perfectly appropriate and respectable garment, and that he has no idea how to take it being called _the ugliest thing she’s ever worn_ as anything but offensive.

“It was my mother’s.” He snaps, a bit more _de_ fensively than he intends to. “They all look like that.”

Illness huffs, wrapping her arms around herself. “I know we’re _undercover_ , but I don’t get why I can’t wear my own stuff!”

“Keep your voice down!” replies Luchino, not keeping his voice down. “I’ve seen _your_ taste in clothes. You would stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Uh, pretty sure I stick out like a sore thumb _now_. What am I, a _curtain_?”

“No. A… a _girl_. You’re supposed to be _a girl_. A normal one.”

“Hmph, so I’m not a _girl_ normally?”

“Not a normal one.”

“Why don’t _you_ have to dress up, Rookie?”

“What are you talking about? Do you honestly think I would wear something like this _by choice_?” Luchino asks, tugging at the collar of his plaid shirt. “It’s completely unprofessional.”

Someone ruffles his hair, and he turns with a start.

“Settle down, kids.”

He looks up, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to straighten it out, and grumbles: “Would it kill you to shave your face, Death?”

“Why does it matter?” Death smirks. “We wear masks half the time.”

  
“I want you to look presentable.”

  
“I thought you wanted me to look _in character_. Aren’t dads supposed to look gruff?”

Luchino scoffs, shakes his head; he doesn’t know _much_ about what fathers are supposed to be, but he does know this much.

“No father of _mine_ would ever have a five o'clock shadow.”

 

The hotel is quiet and it’s not difficult for them to book a room without raising any eyebrows; the lobby is empty aside from the clerk at the front counter, so even Illness’ odd comments don’t garner attention. Luchino owes this to his ingenious disguises, but the fact is there would have been no one there _to_ recognise them in the first place.

On the elevator up, Luchino speaks on the phone.

“We’re on the fourth floor. Room forty-five.”

While Illness tries to convince Death to give her a piggyback ride.

“If you’re pretending to be my dad, doesn’t it, uh, make sense?”

Not that she would know. Her father had never been _fatherly_.

“A father who gives their child piggybacks wants them to grow up weak and codependent.”

Illness concludes that Death’s father must not have been _fatherly_ either, and decides not to ask again.

“Are you sure you can make it up? — Try not to break any bones, Aging.”

* * *

 

By the time they reach the room, Aging, whom Luchino had decided is too bizarre to even _dress up_ as normal, is already sitting calmly next to a pile of glass shards.

“I told you not to break anything,” says Luchino quietly, rubbing his temple.

“You said _try not to break any_ bones. Didn’t say anything about _windows_.”

“She’s right.” Death nods, striding into the room past him. “We heard the conversation.”

“Do I have to _tell you_ not to break windows?”

Aging shrugs.

“Probably would’ve broken it anyway.”

* * *

 

“Hey, why don’t we just _break in_? My eye’s getting tired.”

An international criminal organisation using a peephole as their primary means of observation may not be the most _dignified_ thing, but Luchino has decided it is by far the most practical and inconspicuous. According to Life’s analysis of the phone data, the leader of the drug cartel is in the room directly opposite them; it wouldn’t take specialised equipment for them to notice if she enters or leaves, only dedicated watchfulness.

“We have no idea what this woman’s capable of, Illness. It’s important to observe her before we act.”

Illness grumbles something that Luchino doesn’t catch, and turns her attention back to the hallway. It’s giving her a headache, but it’s better than a lot of the tasks she’s been assigned in her time with the Mask Makers. She’ll put up with it, begrudgingly.

“Umm, Rookie, you said watch out for a _woman_ , right?”

“That’s what the man said, didn’t he?”

“Hm.” Illness nods. “There’s not any, uh, _women_. There’s a kid, though.”

“A kid?”

Luchino asks her to step aside and takes a look for himself. True to her word, there _is_ a kid — a girl, probably a few years younger than he or Illness.

“Ransom,” suggests Death.  

After a moment of heavy silence, Aging nods.

“We ransom the kid!”

“No,” their superior responds curtly, a frown where the stoic line of his mouth should be. “We’re above kidnapping.”

Illness fidgets with the hem of her dress, lips pursed in thought.

“I dunno, Rookie, maybe we _should._ ” He’s surprised to hear this from her _of all people_ , it’s written on his face, and she chimes in quickly to clarify: “I-I mean, if we ransom her no one has to get hurt, right? W-We just… get what we need and go.”

The looks between Death and Aging tell him that _no one getting hurt_ is the opposite of what will come this choice, and yet — it’s decided.

* * *

 

As the closest in age, Illness is sent out to approach the girl. She feels bad about it, because there’s no way someone so young could know what her parents are involved with — because she had been the daughter of criminals, too, and someone back then had seen her and decided to spare her, and now she is actively deciding _not_ to do the same. She tells herself she _is_ sparing her, that if they don’t _capture_ her she’d end up in the line of fire, and that would be more dangerous. She knows this is only half true, though. She knows that she can only justify doing things like this because she is sick.

It doesn’t take very much. _Hey! I’m Illness — uh, do you wanna watch a movie with me?_ The girl is nice. Illness learns her name is Carnea. When Illness closes the door behind them and Aging and Death point guns at Carnea, she feels like she might throw up.

“Keep quiet and we won’t shoot, kid. This isn’t about you.”

In comparison to Illness, Carnea is completely unfazed. She smiles, calmly.

“May I ask who it _is_ about?”

Death begins to repeat _keep quiet_ , but Aging, apparently amused by this response, gives the girl a break.

“Your mom, I figure. Whoever’s in charge of this whole operation — you know what your family does, don’t you? You seem like a smart kid.”

Carnea is wide-eyed, head tilted, staring blankly at the woman.

“You’re mistaken. My mom died years ago.”

Then the smile, resigned, more mature than anyone her age should be able to smile.

“The person you’re looking for — ‘ _whoever’s in charge’_. That’s me.”

 

“Ha,” Death breathes, taking a step closer with his gun pointed to her head. “Guess this’ll be an easy job then.”

Illness isn’t sure what to think of this revelation — if the leader of an organisation that does bad things is a child, do they still deserve to be punished for it? Her gut says _no_. Her gut also says that if Death takes one step closer to the girl she might vomit on him.

She tries to make eye contact with Luchino from across the small room, but he seems to be elsewhere. In truth, he doesn’t want to watch this unfold. In truth, he feels just as sickened as she does.

“Rookie —”

There’s no other choice. This is the mission, eliminating the drug cartel, and every mission follows the same mantra; whatever it takes, _however many lives it takes_.

“Stop.”

His impulses don’t seem to obey his conscious thought. He stands, moves to lower Death’s gun.

“Let me handle this.”

There _have_ to be other choices, sometimes. Luchino wants to make this organisation into something worthy of _respect_ again; Mask Makers don’t survive on pity and mercy, but they don’t survive on _child murder_ either.

He takes a deep breath and leans down to eye level.

“I run a business, Miss Carnea,” he begins, somewhere _between_ stern-faced Mask Maker and sheepish Luchino.  “— and, to my understanding, you run a business as well. Do you know what that means?”

Then he forgets to be the Mask Maker, for a moment. He smiles.

“Let’s make a deal.”

* * *

 

“No, no, there’s no need to join us, Life,” Luchino speaks into the phone, covering his unoccupied ear to block out the noise from the other side of the hotel room.

“It’s been dealt with. They won’t be taking away from our business anymore.” He smiles to himself. He thinks he should savour it; this may be the only time in his life that he will be able to _smile_ after a mission.

“No, no issues. No violence, in fact. The boss was surprisingly compliant.”

Life says something on the other end, but he doesn’t catch it.

“Hold on, I can’t hear you, Illness is…?”

He looks over, then furrows his brow.

“— Illness, why are you _crying_?”

Illness, sat cross-legged on the floor beside Carnea, wipes at her tears with the sleeve of his mother’s dress.

“It’s just s-so sad — all she wants is to go home.”

She sniffles, and Luchino follows her gaze to the TV set, squinting at the old film playing.

“… You realise she goes home at the end?”

She furrows her brow, looking up at Luchino, then at the screen.

“Eh?” Then finally she looks to Aging, pursing her lips into a frown. “You said the witch kills her! L-Liar!”

“Haa, you’re so gullible,” muses Aging, making inch-by-inch progress in an arm wrestle against Death.

“Hmph! I’m not gullible! You _tricked_ me!”

“That’s what gullible means, kid.” Death snickers, until the _thud_ of his hand being slammed against the table cuts him off.

“Told you I could crush you with my pinky.”


End file.
